


In vino veritas (or something to that effect)

by Beginte



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: But also, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Jaskier's delirious melodramatics, Love Confessions, M/M, Poison, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, i am soft, kind of, long-suffering but caring Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: Oh, well. At least he’ll go watched over by his muse and writhing in the sheets and drenched with sweat, as any self-respecting artist ought to go.His muse rolls his eyes.“You’re not dying, Jaskier.”Or: Jaskier gets mildly poisoned and decides to act out a proper deathbed confession scene.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 74
Kudos: 699





	In vino veritas (or something to that effect)

Jaskier always knew it would come to this.

Being a Witcher’s companion has thrown him into fame and fortune, but also in the path of danger, not so much from monsters but from various terrible people who insist on wishing to do Geralt harm. It’s almost flattering, really, that someone decided to poison Jaskier to hurt Geralt, or it would be flattering if it wasn’t _fucking poison_!

Geralt had lovingly dosed him with an antidote (well -- he squeezed Jaskier's jaw until his mouth popped open and poured the antidote in, but he still cradled his head and touched his face, so Jaskier will go ahead and count that as loving, thank you very much -- it’s _his_ tragic demise, after all), but the world is still a swirl of heat and strange blurs, and Jaskier is fairly sure he’s still dying, far from civilisation, on a hay-stuffed mattress in a second-rate inn.

Oh, well. At least he’ll go watched over by his muse and writhing in the sheets and drenched with sweat, as any self-respecting artist ought to go.

His muse rolls his eyes.

“You’re not dying, Jaskier.”

“Easy for you to say!” rasps Jaskier, while the bed slowly rotates upside-down with him still in it. “I have poison coursing through my veins, Geralt! _Poison_! Promise to mourn me.”

Geralt sighs, which is a bit disappointing, because he should be sobbing or at least whispering tender reassurances into Jaskier’s ear, the way a proper muse should while their artist is on his deathbed. Oh, yes! Deathbed! Of course -- Jaskier cannot possibly go without a deathbed confession!

Lovemaking is one thing (a thing he and Geralt happen to be fantastic at, might he add), as are simple yet deep-reaching gestures of affection, but there is something to be said for words. Oh, words, the blood of Jaskier’s vibrant life, and now he must put his love into them, for he simply cannot perish without having told them to Geralt!

He seizes Geralt’s hand and squeezes it with his own appropriately pale and weak hands (clammy though, ugh), and strains towards him.

“I love you,” he says, and it comes out as breathless and valiant as it should, but Geralt ruins it, the brute, with a snort -- no sense of artistry, this one, but Jaskier’s heart is forever his anyway.

“You love everyone and everything.”

Jaskier gapes.

“All right, first of all, I think you just called me a slut while I’m trying to confess my undying love to you, which -- rude. Second of all, there’s nothing wrong with being a slut, and I’ve only ever loved _you_ for a good few years now, by the way, but more importantly, _third of all_ , I just confessed my undying love to you! And I’ve said it three times now! Three? No, four. Four! It would be nice to hear something back here, Geralt!”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, oh -- hmm, he says! Well, Geralt, you have truly robbed me of the will to live. I shall die now, and then you’ll be sorry!”

He closes his eyes to ready for death, but it’s a mistake, because the poison swoops through his blood, up into his stomach, and he rolls over onto his side and hangs over the edge of the bed just in time to retch into a bucket Geralt pushes over with his foot.

“There it is,” says the unfeeling light of Jaskier’s entire life, and Jaskier shows him with a finger just precisely what he thinks of his bedside manner.

“Ohh, this is vile,” he moans, flopping onto his back again after Geralt has the decency to offer him some water and cradle his head again while he drinks it, which is better and feels appropriately poetic again. “And here I am, so far from Oxenfurt, a bard wasting away far from civilisation -- who will sing a song about _me_? Geralt, when I die, promise me you’ll write a ballad about my suffering that will make fair maidens cry and Valdo Marx shit himself with envy!”

Geralt nods in a way that Jaskier can’t help but find just a smidge patronising.

“Sure.”

“You know what, Geralt, I’m starting to think you’re not finding my impending doom as upsetting as you should.”

Geralt sighs, staring at the ceiling before he looks back down at Jaskier.

“You’re not dying, Jaskier. I gave you the antidote, and even without it the poison dose was too small and you would have ended up in a brief coma at most.”

“Oh, well, so long as it’s _brief_ ,” seethes Jaskier, but he’s placated by Geralt holding his hand. “Would be a welcome reprieve from my idle chatter, probably,” he adds, because it’s an ailing man’s privilege to torture others.

But Geralt ruins everything again, because he smiles -- actually _smiles_ , Jaskier must truly be delirious! -- and reaches out to touch his cheek.

“No,” he says softly, his palm too cool against Jaskier’s feverish skin, and Jaskier’s insides go all sorts of liquid, although that might still be the poison.

“No? So do you mean--”

“But you should stop talking _for now_ ,” says Geralt. “Get some gods-damn rest, Jaskier. You’ll be fine in the morning.”

Jaskier huffs and grumps, but he allows Geralt to coax him into comfort on the pillows, and even to tuck him in, which Jaskier wants to write a ballad about, but he might burst into tears halfway through it. Geralt proceeds to pour some more water into him before brushing a hand over his forehead and hmm-ing in a way that suggests things are not ideal but on the right track. Jaskier is very fluent in hmm.

Since he’s apparently no longer at death’s door, Jaskier allows his mind to naturally turn towards vengeance.

“Geralt?”

A heavy sigh.

“You were supposed to rest.”

“And I will, I absolutely will, you have my solemn word on that, cross my heart and all, but tell me, Geralt, what happened to that man who so thoughtfully spiced up my food?”

Geralt’s pretty, pretty jaw clenches.

“It was your drink, actually. And he tripped and fell on my sword.”

“How unfortunate for him,” muses Jaskier, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s hand to relax it, because it’s crushing the absolute fuck out of his own, which is very sweet and all, but Jaskier makes his living with his hands!

“He got off easy,” grunts Geralt, and it probably says something deeply disturbing about Jaskier that he gets all warm and fuzzy from this. “Go to sleep.”

“Ugh, all right, fine, but only because you killed a man to avenge me. Now, come over here and hold me dear, I feel I might not entirely be out of the woods just yet.”

Geralt sighs, but he clambers into bed, slotting himself behind Jaskier, gathering him into his arms, and oh, this is nice. He nuzzles the back of Jaskier’s neck, just the way Jaskier likes and forever associates with lazy mornings spent in Geralt’s arms, and then presses a kiss against it. Jaskier hums, and when he closes his eyes this time, his insides stay put where they should. He finds Geralt’s hand with his own and pulls it close to his chest.

“I do, you know,” Geralt rumbles into the back of Jaskier’s neck in that sheepish way he has that makes Jaskier want to scream with adoration. “Love you. I love you.”

“Oh, Geralt,” says Jaskier; he squeezes Geralt’s hand and brings it to his lips and presses kisses to it, because honestly, how dare he. “I know. Of course I know. But it’s nice to hear it, isn’t it?”

Geralt grunts and kisses the back of Jaskier’s neck one more time.

“Yes,” he says, and he doesn’t even sound like it hurts his teeth to admit it, which is always nice. “Now fucking go to sleep.”

Jaskier falls asleep about six verses into his newest ballad about the poisoned bard and his vengeful wolf. He can make Valdo Marx shit with envy himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I am officially hooked on these two idiots.
> 
> Have some laughs and fluff in these weird times <3


End file.
